


The Psychic Psychic, Affair.

by malfoible



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:04:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfoible/pseuds/malfoible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>plot shamelessly stolen from a couple of tv episodes. mashed and altered to fit our movie duo.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Psychic Psychic, Affair.

**Author's Note:**

> plot shamelessly stolen from a couple of tv episodes. mashed and altered to fit our movie duo.

Solo had been missing for five days.  
Waverley had agents and informants searching but he wasn’t overly concerned.  
If Solo had been kidnapped they would be contacted soon. He was of the opinion they should wait and see.

Illya was not a patient man.

The Russian had been coming to the office every day to find out what was being done to find his partner.

Anger being his default position, this made for very uncomfortable visits for Waverley.

By the time the door had been wrenched from its’ hinges for the second time and Kuriakins pounding on the outer office desk had caused it to collapse  
Waverley was looking for any help he could get.  
After the latest visit from the furious Russian he murmured to his secretary that he was at a loss as what to do.

“I know a psychic.” Said April-Mae. “She’s very good she helped me find my keys once.”

“Mr Solo is far larger than a set of keys.”

“So he should be easier to find.” She smiled.

Waverley smiled back at her. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to explore every avenue.  
It would also be something to tell Kuriakin next time he turned up.

Madame Arcardy turned up at ten in the morning.

April-Mae had informed Illya so he arrived promptly.

Madame Arcardy looked just as everyone imagined a psychic to look.  
Long layers of clothes, scarves, rings, earrings. A slightly otherworldly look.  
Waverly with an Englishman’s appreciation of all things eccentric, liked her immediately.

He wondered how Kuriakin would treat her, but Russian folklore was filled with tales of things unproven by science.  
Illya believed.

Madame took his hand. “You have lost something of great value to yourself. No not something…someone…he means more to you than you realise…than you admit…even to yourself….”

Illya snatched his hand away and frowned at April-Mae. 

“What have you been saying? It is my partner who is lost…only my partner. We work together.”

Madame smiled gently as if she understood.

“I shall need something of his, a letter, or a photograph, perhaps something personal, a lock of hair.”

Waverly sent April-Mae to get Solos file.

“We definitely have a photograph.”

 

Illya opened his wallet.  
He took out a photo and placed it on the desk.  
Then a short folded note joined the picture. “He wrote me this.”  
He reached into his pocket. “This is a phial of the aftershave he uses.” He placed this on the desk too.  
Finally he opened his wallet again and took out a small envelope.  
“This is a lock of his hair.”

Waverley looked astounded but Madame Arcardy just smiled.

“Exactly what I need, well done.” She looked at the items one by one then asked to be left alone for a short while.

It was an hour later when she called them back into the room.

“I have seen your friend, a large house, very grand, with many floors, but he is not a guest. He is in a darker, smaller room, a cellar perhaps, he is not alone.”

“Oscar Lavenham, Solo was investigating him, an arms dealer. His house is grand, there will be a cellar. I will go now.”

“Mr Kuriakin, it will be dangerous, would you like another Agent to accompany you?”

Illya shook his head. “I work alone.”

Waverly rolled his eyes at the nonsense of this statement considering the Russian had been rampaging round London for the past five days looking for his partner.  
Then he nodded. “I’ll give you one hour. Then if you haven’t found him or returned. I will send some back-up.”

Illya picked up some equipment and was soon outside the Laverton mansion.  
He made his way inside and down a long flight of steps to the cellar.  
He could here noises inside, people talking then a crash as a fight broke out.  
He burst into the room to find Solo fighting with a dark- haired man.  
They were both fighting to kill. Each of them bruised and panting.  
He pulled them apart.

“ Thank you Illya.” said Solo.

“ Thank you Illya.” said the other man.

Illya looked from one to another. Both men had the same face. Same build, same suit, same dark hair. Illya stared.  
The men could have been twins. Whoever had gone to the trouble of making a replica Napoleon had done a marvellous job.

The men began to talk their voices eerily familiar.

The one on the right held up his hands. “Come on Peril, it’s me Cowboy you know it’s me, right?”

The man on the left shrugged,” Anyone could say that.”

Illya turned to the one on the right and punched him over and over. He fell to the floor.

Solo smiled gently at his partner. “How did you know…he knew the nicknames…?”

Illya pulled Solo upright, “I have looked in your eyes my friend… the window to the soul…you can’t disguise your soul.” 

Napoleon collapsed into his arms.

“Also he was a better fighter than you…I’ve seen you fight many, many times.” 

Next day Waverley was leaving Solos hospital room when Kuriakin turned up.

“Nice work Mr. Kuriakin. Foiled a plot to infiltrate the organisation. Excellent.”

Solo was awake and alert.

“Thank you again Illya. Em Waverley said…he said you found me using a psychic. You gave her a lock of my hair…er Why would you have a lock of my hair.”

The Russian looked at him as if he were insane to ask the question.

“In case you die in a fire of course and are burned beyond recognition. Your friends and family…people who care about you they would not know you were dead.”

“I have no one…no-one would care if I died.”

“I care.” The Russian could hardly get the words out…he moved to the door. Solo grabbed his hand.

“I care too…if you died…if you were killed…I would want to know too…”

The Russian turned back to the bed. “Well then, it is sensible to be prepared is it not? I shall bring you a lock of my hair tomorrow.”


End file.
